“You’re not being very angelic,” Aunt Mary said. “So, Hulda, do you have everything you need?”
“Yes.”
“And are you settling in okay?”
“I guess so.”
“And you know you can come to me, right? If there’s anything you want to talk about. Anything at all.”
“Of course.” I smiled. I lied.
* * *
If it’s possible for real life to turn into a montage from a movie, that’s what happened next.
Every morning Ethan knocked on Aunt Mary’s door and I went to help him feed. (My job was opening the gates. According to Ethan, it was a very important job.)
Every afternoon I helped Aunt Mary cook and deliver food to the older people in the community who couldn’t get out in the snow. “Here,” she said the first day, handing me the keys. “I don’t drive much anymore.”
Emily and the twins tried to teach me how to two-step.
Clint grilled steaks and we had big, noisy dinners at Ethan’s house with everybody taking turns holding Ethan’s cousin’s baby.
Aunt Mary put me in charge of wrapping presents and the twins let me hold a baby pig.
And through it all, Ethan was there, teaching me how to drive a stick shift in the chore truck, teasing me when my boots got so bogged down in mud that I actually stepped out of them and had to walk back to Aunt Mary’s on bare feet.
He didn’t talk about Hulda.
He didn’t ask me where I was from or why I was running.
He didn’t look at me like I was a liar or a fraud or a cheat.
And, for a few days there, I wasn’t really Hulda and I wasn’t really me. For a few days, I was just … happy.
Because, for a few days, I had a family.
* * *
“You’ve got to keep stirring,” Aunt Mary told me. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and even though it was below freezing outside, Aunt Mary’s kitchen was hot. Steam collected on the windows while the brown concoction on the stove boiled and popped like something in a witch’s cauldron.
“Are you stirring?” Aunt Mary asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She eyed the boiling caramel. “Stir harder.”
When the caramel began to splatter, Aunt Mary said, “Oh, hon, you’re gonna get that all over your pretty top. Go grab an apron.”
There was a hook full of aprons in the laundry room and I grabbed one that was pink and covered with white flowers. But as soon as Aunt Mary saw me, something in her eyes made me stop.
“What?” I asked, then looked down and saw the name embroidered on the pocket. Daisy. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is this your daughter’s?”
“Yes, it is. But … you wear it,” Aunt Mary said. “She’d want you to wear it.”
When I started pulling my hair up into a ponytail Aunt Mary asked, “Did anyone ever tell you your hair looks nice away from your face?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “My mom.”
“Do you miss her, sweetie? We can call her, or—”
“No,” I said too quickly. “I mean, that’s okay. The time difference, you know. It can wait.”
The back door slammed open as Emily yelled, “Aunt Mary!”
“Boots!” Aunt Mary said, but Emily was already pulling off her muddy boots and leaving them by the back door.
“Aunt Mary, do you have any potatoes?” she asked.
“Why?” Aunt Mary sounded skeptical, but Emily cut her eyes at me.
“You’ll see.”
* * *
“Surprise!” Emily and Susan yelled in unison when we arrived at Ethan’s house that night.
There was another sign. This one hung in the dining room, announcing Happy Þorláksmessa, Hulda!
“What is all this?” I asked.
“Well, we know it must be hard for you to be away from your family at Christmas,” Aunt Mary said. “The holidays are always hard without your family.”
Maybe I was imagining things, but it felt like the room changed as she said it. For a second, no one could meet anyone else’s gaze.
“So…” Mary went on, “we thought we’d bring a little of Iceland to you!”
“Oh. Yay!” I tried. Only then did I really look around the room.
There were shoes sitting in all the windows. Yes, shoes. Sinister looking Santas lined the center of the table, and a pile of potatoes was arranged on a serving tray like some kind of strangely festive centerpiece.
“Wow. Someone went to a lot of trouble.”
“Well, of course we did, silly. It’s Saint Thorlakur’s Day!” Ethan’s mom said. Then she grew serious. “Am I saying that correctly?”
“Yeah, Hulda,” Ethan said. “Is she saying that correctly?”
“Yes. Very good,” I told her, and Susan beamed. Ethan smiled like he was about to choke on the canary he’d just eaten.
“Sit, sit.” Aunt Mary ushered us all into chairs. “Part of the fun of hosting an exchange student is learning about their home culture. So we thought we’d have you teach us all about Christmas in Iceland!”
“Hulda is an expert on Christmas in Iceland,” Ethan said, moving away before I could kick him under the table.
“We did a little research online,” Susan said. “But we still have so many questions.”
“Yeah,” Emily said. “Like what’s the deal with all the shoes?”
“Yes, Hulda.” Ethan leaned back in his chair. “Tell us all about the shoes!”
“Oh, well…” I started slowly. “The shoes are really fascinating.”
I looked back to the windows, the shoes that sat on every ledge. “We put them in the windows, you see…”
“Oh, we do see.” Ethan nodded. “But why, Hulda? Why are the shoes in the windows?”
“Um … well … that’s because in olden times … people would forget their shoes and … people left extra shoes in windows and that way travelers could find shoes when they needed them. Because Iceland is a hard place to live without … you know … shoes. Land of Ice,” I added seriously.
“I thought Greenland was the one covered by ice,” Clint said.
“That too,” I said.
“Why does Santa look so scary?” One of the twins was eyeing the little red-clad man who sat right in front of her, staring at her like he might be an axe murderer.
“That’s a great question,” Ethan said. “Tell us, Hulda, why does Santa look so scary?”
“That’s not Santa,” Emily said. “He’s one of the Yule Lads.”
“Yule Lads!” I blurted, as if I’d come up with the answer all on my own. “That’s who that is. I guess they’re kind of like our Santa?”
“How many are there?” Clint asked.
“Nine,” I said, but Emily was already crinkling her brow.
“I thought there were twelve?” she asked.
“Well, maybe it varies in different parts of the country,” Ethan said. “Right, Hulda?”
“Right!” I agreed. “Some places there are twelve, but where I live there are nine because … the other three died because they forgot their shoes.”
Everyone at the table nodded as if that made perfect sense.
“Isn’t that exciting? We have our own traditions, you know,” Aunt Mary said. “Nothing fancy, but you can’t live in a community called Bethlehem and not have a few Christmas traditions.” She laughed. “We all meet at the church on Christmas Eve. There’s a live nativity.”
“That means real goats, and lots of small children dressed like wise men,” Ethan clarified as his aunt talked on.
“And we sing carols and read the Christmas story. And everyone gets a sack of candy.”
“That sounds nice,” I said. But something about it made me feel sick. Like I was going to contaminate them all with my presence. With my lies.
“I…” I pushed away from the table. I had to get out of there. I had to get away. “I have a headache. I’m so sorry. I just…”
“Ethan,” Clint said, “take her hom
e.”
* * *
Outside, the cold air burned my lungs. The sky was so clear and bright—too bright for three hours after sundown. No matter how long I stayed there, I would never get used to seeing so many stars.
“You okay?” Ethan asked, but I couldn’t breathe, much less speak.
“I’ve got to tell them,” I finally choked out. “They’re so nice. They’re going to hate me. They’re going to hate you! I have to tell them. Right now. Tonight. I’ll—”
“No.” Ethan shook his head, firm in his resolve. “Tell them now and you’ll break Aunt Mary’s heart right before Christmas.”
“She won’t care about that. Her husband and daughter will be home soon and—”
But the look in Ethan’s eyes cut me off. It wasn’t shock. It was absolute sorrow.
“Gosh, Lydia. I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“They died,” he said. “About a year and a half ago. Car accident.”
I heard Aunt Mary’s words: I don’t drive much anymore.
“This is only her second Christmas without them,” Ethan finished, and I felt like someone hit me in the gut. I thought of Aunt Mary’s hugs, her empty house. Of the tree and Hulda’s handmade stocking.
“It was one of the reasons why I thought Hulda coming was such a good idea,” Ethan told me. “Aunt Mary doesn’t like to be alone, and the holidays are so hard.…”
“Yeah. Of course. I wish I’d realized. I would have—”
“No! Don’t change anything, okay? She gets enough sympathy from everybody else. It’s nice having someone who doesn’t treat her like she’s fragile. She hasn’t been this happy since the accident. If you tell her now … it’ll crush her.”
“She’s going to find out eventually, Ethan. It’s not like I can stay here. Eventually, I’m gonna have to leave.”
“We don’t want you to leave, okay?” He ran his hand through his hair again. “I don’t want you to leave.”
I didn’t realize how close we were standing or how warm his hands were on my arms. I didn’t see the way our breath mingled in the cold air. I didn’t realize I was falling until it was too late, probably because I never hit the ground. It was a fall of faith, of hope, of … if you want to be technical about it, love. Or something like it.
And then Ethan’s lips were on mine and I pressed against the warmth of his strong chest, his arms around me, holding me tight. And I wasn’t running away anymore. I was running toward. This moment. This place. This boy.
“Just wait until after Christmas, okay?” Ethan pulled away and stared into my eyes. “Everything will look different after Christmas.”
And I nodded, perfectly content to go on living with the lie.
* * *
On Christmas Eve, Ethan picked me up to take me to the church that sat between a wheat field and a pasture. It was tiny and white with a steeple climbing up into the sky. By the time Ethan parked the truck, the church bells were already chiming.
“Come on.” He took my hand. “We’re late.”
Together we ran laughing toward the doors, but as soon as we stepped inside I straightened and stopped. Ethan’s hand was still in mine, though, as we stood at the back of the crowded room.
“Hulda! Ethan!” Ethan’s mom whispered, motioning to where the family was saving us a pair of seats.
“Good evening, everyone!” I looked up and, for the first time, noticed Aunt Mary standing behind the pulpit, a hymnal in her hands. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
The entire congregation echoed her. “Merry Christmas!”
The room was lit entirely by candles and the white twinkle lights of a half dozen Christmas trees. Mistletoe hung on the end of every one of the old-fashioned pews. It wasn’t like walking into a church. It was like walking back in time. The people of Bethlehem had been celebrating Christmas Eve in that way for a hundred years. There was a comfort in knowing they would probably celebrate it that way for a hundred more.
“You okay?” Ethan whispered, and I nodded. At the front of the room, a pianist began to play.
“Let’s begin with hymn number 101,” Aunt Mary said as Ethan and I sat down on the end of his family’s pew.
There was a fluttering of noise as people picked up songbooks and turned to the page, but I didn’t need to see the music. I knew every word. Every note. And yet, when Aunt Mary sang “O Holy Night,” there was no way I could join in.
“The stars are brightly shining…”
Suddenly, I wasn’t in that little church in the middle of nowhere. I was in a hospital room singing for the small, frail woman on the bed. I was picking out the song on my keyboard. I was watching her eyes fill with tears as she asked me to sing it again.
“It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth…”
I was glad for the dim lights and crowded room. No one was watching me. No one noticed how my eyes began to water and my hands began to shake. And, most of all, no one looked at me and expected me to dance or sing. No one in that room cared if I ever sang again.
“Long lay the world, in sin and—” Aunt Mary’s voice cracked. The words faltered. She moved her lips, but no sound came out as her face turned white and she seemed lost, frozen.
“This was Daisy’s favorite,” she said after awhile, her voice so soft it was barely a whisper. It was like Aunt Mary was lost in a fog of memory and regret and the realization that she would never again share that hymn with her daughter. The pianist kept playing, but no one sang. No one moved.
Ethan’s mother wiped her eyes, and I felt the overwhelming wave of emotion that was rushing through the room. It was about to overtake us. And when the pianist reached the chorus, I felt it overtake me.
It was like when I offered Hulda my ticket; I didn’t make the decision to stand. I didn’t will myself to sing. But before I knew it, I was standing, walking to the front of the room.
“Fall on your knees…” The words came pouring out of me, my voice filling the tiny church as I stared into Aunt Mary’s eyes and realized she was no longer crying. She held out her hand, and I took it and sang louder.
“Oh hear the angel voices!” I sang like I hadn’t sung in years.
And I kept singing. I sang just for the joy of it. For the moment and the music and for me. I sang for Aunt Mary and Daisy and for all the people who couldn’t sing anymore. I sang because not singing would never bring them back but singing might make us all remember.
I sang because that is what I do when I am happy and when I’m sad. I sang because it is who I am when I am being the best possible version of me. I sang because I wasn’t alone as I held Aunt Mary’s hand.
I sang because it was Christmas.
* * *
When the song was over, I went back to sit by Ethan, who had his phone out. He was looking between it and me as if something didn’t quite make sense.
“It’s you!” One of the twins spun around and looked at me from the next pew, her voice was almost vibrating. “We knew it was you. We knew—”
“Hulda.” Ethan’s voice was cold, and I could tell he wasn’t calling me by my fake name. He wasn’t acting along. Instead, he held out his phone so I could read the message on the screen.
From: Hulda
Tell Liddy they’re coming!
“What are you doing here?” the other twin asked. “How did you meet Ethan? Where—”
But I couldn’t make out the words. The packed room was suddenly freezing. I swear I felt a chill. And when I looked up, I saw someone standing by the back door of the church. His hair had been blown askew by the strong wind. He wore a dark overcoat and a red scarf, Italian loafers that were perfectly polished. He didn’t belong in that place. In that world. But I also knew that there was no way he was leaving.
“Who’s Liddy?” Ethan’s voice sounded a thousand miles away. “Look at me.” He took my arm. “Who is Liddy?”
“I am,” I had to admit.
“You said your name was Lydia.”
&nbs
p; “It is. I mean, it was. My mother called me Liddy.” I met his gaze. “Ethan, I’m Liddy Chambers.”
I waited for the words to sink in—for the name to mean something. But Ethan just asked, “Who?” and I could have kissed him. He didn’t scream my name or roll his eyes. I was neither adored nor abhorred by that boy in that moment, and I think I might have loved him for it. Just a little.
“What does Hulda mean, they’re coming?” he asked.
“She’s wrong.” I shook my head and looked at the man who stood by the doors, glaring at me. “They’re here.”
* * *
I wasn’t looking as Emily walked down the center aisle, moving to the front of the church, but she sounded like an angel as she began to read the Christmas story from the Book of Mark. The lights dimmed even further. Little boys dressed like shepherds were carrying baby goats and taking their place at the front of the room, but it felt like I was in a trance as I eased away from Ethan and his family, clinging to the shadows before I slipped outside.
The man who followed didn’t offer me a hug. He didn’t ask if I was okay or tell me how worried he had been. No. The first words out of his mouth were, “Did you know you had a show tonight?”
“Didn’t you see? I just did one,” I shot back.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the helicopter that was sitting in a nearby field, waiting for us.
“A helicopter, Derek?” I rolled my eyes. “Really? Subtle.”
“Come on. We’re leaving.”
“No,” I shouted. “I have to say good-bye. I have to—”
“Lydia!” Ethan’s voice sliced through the clear night air. “Wait.”
It was all I could do to pull away from Derek long enough to look back.
“Who are you?” Aunt Mary was half a step behind Ethan and closing the gap between us quickly. “Where are you taking her? That child is my responsibility!”
Aunt Mary looked and sounded like a force of nature, and Derek might have recoiled a little if there hadn’t been so much riding on that moment. Riding on me.
He puffed out his chest and spat, “No. She’s not. And she’s leaving this place. Now.”
“Hulda, what’s going on here?” Clint had appeared at his sister’s side. “Is this man bothering you?”
My True Love Gave To Me: Twelve Holiday Stories Page 30
